


Burning Up

by Angelic_Disaster



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Aziraphale/Crowley, Implied Crowley yearning for Aziraphale, Jesus and Crowley are friends, Male Friendship, Marcelo agachate y conocelo, Post-Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens), but without the Comfort part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25396564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelic_Disaster/pseuds/Angelic_Disaster
Summary: Crowley kept playing with his hair, remembering all those times that the man who was in front of him, hanging from a cross, bleeding and crying, had braided it when he was just an innocent boy. But He was still just a boy, killed by His Mother.The Bible said that the demon tried to tempt Christ. Crowley just tried to save Him.Now, Armageddon is coming in two days, and Crowley finally had the opportunity to kneel in front of Jesus. He hadn't had the opportunity to do it then, but he could do it now.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	Burning Up

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley is friends with a priest, and for three years he has been going to a church to confess his sins. But Armageddon is coming and he has fought with Aziraphale. Does he stand a chance against the Ineffable Plan, Her, Heaven and Hell? 
> 
> Set just after the Bandstand scene.

The church was nearly empty. In the first row, too close to the altar and praying in whispers, was an old woman with a thick accent and a blue dress. There was also a man sleeping in one of the middle rows, away from the door, trying to escape the winter’s chill.

Other than them, there was a priest in the confessional, waiting. 

The sound was that of every church at sunset: the echo of murmurs and snoring and the sounds of steps as someone was hopping his way to the confessional.

"How was your day?" The priest said, as he did every Thursday that the red-haired man came to confession. He omitted saying _my child_ to the man. People in confession have always needed the father figure of the Church; this man didn't want it, even if he needed it. 

"A nightmare." He complained with a loud snarl collapsing in the chair. 

"Well then, let's begin." The priest said, his voice came like pure concentrated sunshine, a bright smile, like always. 

It had been months with this new routine. It took a lot of work to understand the man, to finally get him to tell the truth. The first time Crowley spoke the _real_ truth he thought the priest would run away, grab a Bible and some holy water, but the man was braver than that, and kinder. It has been centuries since Crowley had found a truly devoted priest, or a good one.

As usual, there was a long silence before Crowley began to talk, but as long as the first few times when he was even less open and didn't have a _bles- da-_ chair to sit on or a place to put his feet without their burning. Since then the priest had placed a seat and little stool to put his feet on.

"I tempted a man into eating meat again today. He's been vegan for six years non-stop! Would you believe that?" Crowley said incredulously. "Tomorrow marked his seventh year. Or it would've been, but now he's wolfing down a hamburger." The priest hummed, letting the demon know he was being heard. “Interesting things you humans, who was the first to see an animal and think, _‘Yeah tasty I’d take a bite out of that?_ ’” The priest was going to say something to Crowley to keep him from rambling, but the demon changed the topic again. “I also discovered that bread makes ducks ill, and I've been feeding ducks bread since... too long ago. Two thousand years? Maybe even more. I remember during the time of the ark..." 

"Anthony..." The priest stopped Crowley from rambling on, in his usual kind and understanding tone. 

"Ngk. Yeah, yeah, sure. Umm..." Crowley kept fidgeting in his seat remembering what has been up to during the week. "Well, I parked in illegal places, fed laxatives to a bunch of pigeons, that surely will make someone’s day real shitty,” he said, using his fingers to count. “Also, listen to this: I crashed the phone network for two hours." He said with a triumphant smile. Crashing the phone network and making the internet slower were two of his favourite activities, they never got old and people always got annoyed.

"You have certainly been busy. But none of those count as a sin, Anthony." The priest smiled to himself, but his voice betrayed him (not that he cared), showing the affection and pride he felt for Crowley. If someone had told him during his training that a demon would try to confess because he felt bad for feeding bread to ducks, he would have exorcised the person on the spot. "It's there something more, dear boy?" Crowley made an uncomfortable noise and fidgeted in his seat; there was little room to maneuver. 

“YES!” Crowley shouted excited, “this is amazing, listen up. I set fire to a bush where a dog pooped. It smelled terrible, and for hours." he said proudly. The priest giggled. 

"Again, it does not count as a sin. But this is better; you've outdone yourself. Congratulations." The priest smiled, biting back an honest laugh, and Crowley kept fidgeting in his seat looking for something, anything, to confess. 

The priest waited in empathetic silence for a moment, letting the red-haired demon think. But after a while he said, “If you want, you could pray two Hail Marys, you know, for the ducks."

"Maybe..." 

"Is there something else that you aren't telling me, dear child?" Crowley had always groaned when the priest forgot to stop himself from calling him _child_. But not this time, this set off red flags in the priest’s mind, startling him. "Anthony, are you all right?" He asked with worry.

"Crowley. That's my name." During the years, the priest had been discovering a lot of things about the demon. Anthony had first come to the church one day three years ago and shook his perception of the world. He always thought that Anthony was a too human name for a demon, but he didn’t judge. 

In the seminary the first thing they teach you in Exorcism 101, is that the easiest way to exorcise a demon is by using its name. Knowing the demon’s name is where you have real power, where you have advantage over them. This was too much power in his human hands.

It could be a temptation from the demon. He could be tempting the priest to smite a poor soul that was really trying to be better, just to show off the power of the Lord that was in him. The priest shook his head. Three years he has known Anthony, no, _Crowley_ , three years. He had listened to Crowley laugh, curse and cry. He trusted that the demon wasn't trying to tempt him. Not after the first year at least. 

But it could be a suicide pill. The priest's heart sank, his stomach twisted painfully. He knew that Crowley had been an anxious mess for a long long time, centuries, millennia — but he had never thought he could really consider something like that. The priest inhaled deeply, trying to think, trying to really think before making an assumption. He recalled all his memories, all he knew about the demon, and stopped, considering the inconsiderable, believing in the unbelievable: it could be that Crowley, a demon, really trusted a priest. He smiled. Three years is a lot of time to know a person, at least, in human years. If Crowley trusted him enough to give him his name, then, well, the priest trusted Crowley too. 

"Are you all right..." The priest paused before saying the name out loud, and the air felt heavier, the silence was strangely heavy, as if it was void. The demon gulped audibly, knowing the power the priest now had over him. "Crowley?" For the priest, his lips tasted like burned wood when he pronounced the name, and the smell of candles that had been consumed long ago was now overpowering. The sound of his name coming from the priest made Crowley shiver all over. It burned his whole body, not in a way that he couldn't bear, but it still made him tremble. Three years wasn’t a lot of time, but he hadn’t too much time left. 

“Am I really that unforgivable?” Crowley asked, his voice broken, as if he had kept it hidden inside himself for longer than the priest had existed, far longer than this church had existed. “I mean, I only did the temptations they asked for, and I confessed. I have the same destiny as a demon that kills angels, as a demon that _enjoys killing angels_. I burned in the same fire where he burned. But they killed too, not only demons, but angels, they bathed in blood too, and in sins…” He stopped; he wasn’t going to shatter the faith of a priest just two days before Armageddon. It wasn’t necessary. 

“...And there I was, asking why, and She smote me on the spot. Now I've been two years clean, but the floor still burns, I can't touch the water and He..." Crowley paused, one of those long pauses when you know that there was more to be said, but you also know that it is not easily said. The priest waited, but Crowley was silent. The only sound in the church was the soft sound of the homeless man’s snoring. 

"How is Aziraphale?" The priest asked, making Crowley snort. He made a funny laugh, then he gulped loudly, his laugh left a cold silence. 

"We fought. A couple of hours ago, in fact," Crowley said. He spoke with such pain that it pierced the priest's heart. Crowley tried to change the subject, trying to keep his suave, cool image. "There’s not much time left anyway, but don't worry, you're good. You'll probably be listening to the Sound of Music up in the clouds for eternity." Crowley said, emphasizing his point with a flourish, as though to mock how angels spoke. The priest looked at him through the rack of the confessional, at least at what he could see. Crowley looked defeated, tired. The priest had tried to look at the demon before, he knew that Crowley was a redhead, but he had never seen most of his face. You shouldn't try to see who is confessing. Crowley hadn't seen the priest’s face before either. 

The priest’s hands shook a little, Crowley had told him a year ago, “the end is coming,” and the priest, devoted as he was, tried not to think about it, not to ask but... 

"How much time is left, Crowley?" Crowley’s voice didn’t sound like a good omen at all, and for the Lord’s sake, was it really that bad to be curious?

"Two days, kiddo." Crowley bit back, “S’rry”

The priest decided that it was time for a change. 

"Come on Crowley." He said and left the confessional, stepping just in front of the demon. The priest made a gesture for Crowley to jump on his back.

"Argh, no, no way. No, no, no, no, you’ve got to be kidding." 

"Come on, there’s no one here to see you." Crowley groaned but he jumped on the priest’s back anyway, doing a little miracle so he wouldn’t be too heavy to carry. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“You'll see; stop complaining.” He joked.

The priest carried the demon down a hallway, opened a humble door, and Crowley found himself in a cozy office. It had the same smell of books, leather and dust as the bookshop. The priest helped Crowley to a table where he could sit without burning his feet, and searching the little office, he grabbed two glasses and an old whiskey bottle. Crowley looked at him surprised. 

"That doesn't look like the blood of Christ, father," said Crowley, smirking, and grabbed a cup already filled to the brim.

"Tell me Crowley, is a sin to drink?" He asked him, filling the other cup and sitting down at the table with the demon. "And it’s Marcelo, my name, by the way." 

Crowley smiled, "Then a toast, Marcelo, to the End of Times." Marcelo smiled too as they clinked their glasses. 

"When you study to be a priest, you know," He looked at the bottle; Marcelo was already tipsy after three drinks. Crowley was in perfect condition. "... you really develop a great resistance to alcohol." 

"I've been around before humans discovered how to make it. One of your better inventions, alcohol. Even better than cars,” he said with a big smirk; he was feeling a lot better than when he had entered the church. “What were you saying?” 

Marcelo tried to remember, but he rambled on and had lost the first idea; Crowley laughed out loud. Even if he wasn't entirely intoxicated, it has been a long time since he drank with someone who wasn't Aziraphale. When you know that Armageddon is around the corner you stop trying to make relationships with humans. Da Vinci was a good pal to have drinks with. Oh, the good Farrokh Bulsara, those were good parties indeed. 

"May I ask?" Marcelo said, and Crowley lifted a brow. 

"About what exactly, father?" He said, suspicious.

"How was it?" 

"What? Heaven? I don't remember much. It doesn’t matter, trying to help my poor foul soul surely granted you a good place up there." 

"No Crowley. I’ll have a lot of time to discover it. If I got to get in. I’m not going to deny that I would like to ask a lot of things about you." 

"You may." He said but Marcelo shushed him, holding up his hand in the air for more time that it was needed, and lowered it softly. No more alcohol for him, he thought. 

"I'm asking about your fight with Aziraphale." Crowley had become relaxed with all the alcohol and the talking. Now he was fidgeting at the table as he did in the confessional. "How many years? Six thousand years? That's a lot of time." Marcelo said, trying to persuade Crowley into talking. The demon hummed, playing with his glass. 

"M’not drunk enough." 

"Then drink more Crowley. It’s not like I have enough time to drink the whole bottle by myself. It would really be a waste."

"Sssure." 

It took a full bottle, and another one that Crowley made appear out of nowhere. And another one. Marcelo had stopped after his third glass. He wondered where all the alcohol was coming from but asked no questions. Crowley was wasted, sprawled across the table, looking at the ceiling.

"I can't understand. What is the ‘great’ plan? She kept drowning you. You kept killing each other. War, famine, pestilence. Oh, you have no idea how horrible the Fourteenth century was. Shakespeare at least came out with King Lear, but I don't like that one really. Otello? Great. The Merchant of Venice? I cracked up everytime." He drank another glass in one long gulp. "But you keep dying. Why? It makes no sense at all. I’m not even talking about the World Wars or the Spanish Inquisition. I'm not even talking about Noah. But Her own son. It’s not that surprising, not a lot of what She does surprises me anymore. I mean, it’s supposed to be that y'all are Her children too but She lets all of you die. And it’s supposed to be that I'm Her son too. Or at least I was, once. And now I'm thissss." He said gesturing to his face. Marcelo looked at him, puzzled. 

"Oh, sure. Do you want to see something cool?" Asked Crowley, trying to sit straight at the table, or, at least trying, looking at the priest. 

"Sure." He said, and after three years of knowing a demon Marcelo finally saw the demon’s eyes. If he had ever any doubt about Crowley being a real demon, he couldn't deny it anymore. Crowley waited for Marcelo to scream, or to cringe. Instead, the priest just smiled. "You were saying, Crowley?"

Crowley put his glasses on again sprawled across the table, and shouted, "I was saying: KIDS!" Crowley kept rambling on and to Marcelo it was getting difficult to keep track of Crowley’s jumps between ideas. The first time Crowley said _kids_ he sounded excited, like a revelation. But then he said _the kids_ , and it sounded sad. "Why kill kids?"

Marcelo was very confused. The seminary never prepared you to comfort a soft demon who loved kids and couldn't bear them dying. 

"They were always happy; they were always kind. They don't care who you are or how you look. They just want to play, y’know? I always liked having long hair, and they adored it. I cut it after they killed Christ. He was a good pal, a very good kid. It took a lot for me to cut my hair. When he was young, he liked to braid it and play hide and seek with me. He was good, the best of them all, and She let him die. She _sent_ him to die. For what? He is paying for all your sins,” He said, his voice torn between anger and exhaustion, the wine in his wandering hand was prevented from spilling by a demonic miracle. “She knew it when She put that damned tree there. It could have been on the top of a mountain, She could have placed it on the moon. But nooooo, She wanted you to eat the fruit, so She could send Her son to die. She could smite all of us, my lot, the fallen. She could, She can, but She doesn't. She wants us to kill each other, She wants you to suffer the destruction that our war is going to bring. She killed all the children, and She keeps killing. Or maybe She is bored. She doesn't answer them either. She just does not answer." Crowley left his glass on the side, laying on the table he put his free arm over his eyes, in silence. 

Marcelo finally dared to ask what he was waiting to ask for so long, “Have you prayed to Her?” 

"What do you think, Father?" Marcelo shrugged, to be honest, he was drinking with a demon who cried over children and ducks. He believed that Crowley would have prayed.

"We could pray together." 

"Nah, I would prefer not to. Either way, She does not listen, and She won't answer.” Crowley sat again, watching at the window “I should be going.”

"Oh no, don't ever think about it. I can't carry you being this drunk. And you still haven't told me about Aziraphale." Marcelo tried to be playful: Crowley had been trying to talk about Aziraphale since the very first day they had met, but he had never been able to say anything real, anything important, anything about what he really wanted to say. Marcelo knew the name, knew the history, knew the longing in Crowley’s voice, the way his voice cracked every time Aziraphale’s name touched his lips. 

"I asked him to run away with me today. But he still believes in Heaven. He still believes that I'm just a demon." 

"But... you are a demon."

"Yeah." Crowley said "I'm also his friend. Or tried to be." 

"Oh, I'm sorry." 

"Nah, s'all right. But I should go now. There's not much time left. You shouldn’t spend it pitying me."

"Crowley please, I'm not pitying you, I-"

It took only a snap and Marcelo was asleep at the table. What a shame. Marcelo was cool and Crowley liked him. At any other moment in history, with more time on his hands, Crowley could have considered making a real friendship with him like he did with Da Vinci. But time wasn’t on his side. Crowley looked around, trying to figure how he could leave the church without permanently damaging his feet.

“Ugh, fuck it.” Crowley said to himself, it wasn’t like he was going to live much longer. 

The church floor burned but he could live with that. The stained glass of the church’s windows reflected the moonlight, making a kaleidoscope over the altar. He remembered Him—there over the altar was the face of that clumsy kid who kept braiding his hair and insisting on play with him. Now He was only marble and paint in an awful picture of torture. A crude view of the reality, of what humans could do to each other. Of what She could do to them. 

Crowley may have been burning up, but he walked to the altar, and fixed his gaze on the candles. They all lit up. The church was silent and empty, the echo of his steps were the only sounds. Crowley, for the first time in millenia, kneeled in front of the fake sculpture of Christ. 

He remembered the boy. He remembered Mary seeing his amber eyes and hurried to take the young Jesus away. _Oh, but that blessed boy._

"Why?" Jesus had asked and Mary didn't know how to answer. So the boy played with him. 

And the boy grew up, and Crowley showed him all the kingdoms of the world. The Bible said that the demon tried to tempt Christ. Crowley just tried to save Him.

_"You can't tempt me, foul demon," Jesus said, a playful tone in his voice, the same way he had always teased Crawley._

_"You won't like what's waiting for you, kid."_

_"I understand that you are worried, Crawley. But I know. You want me to trust you, and I do. I want you to trust me too."_

_"If you know what is coming for you Jesus, then you should accept my offer," the demon said, trying to sound indifferent, but Jesus knew him enough to not be fooled, to recognize the concern in his voice._

_"I'm sorry. But I have to do this."_

_Crowley and Aziraphale had stayed with him until his last breath. Crowley kept playing with his hair, remembering all those times that the man who was in front of him, hanging from a cross, bleeding and crying, had braided it when he was just an innocent boy. But He was still just a boy, killed by His Mother._

Crowley kneeled in front of Jesus. He hadn't had the opportunity to do it then, but he could do it now. 

It burned. 

His feet, his knees, his eyes. It burned more than the sulfur pit where he had landed after the Fall. 

He kneels, but he doesn't pray. "Why?" He _asks._

_"Why?" he had asked then, on top of the mountain from where he could see Judas walking._

" _Because of him. And for him. For them, all of them. For all the people who have died and for the people who haven't been born yet. For you too." Jesus had said._

_"I'm unforgivable; it’s part of the job."_

_"If you say so, my child."_

"Why?" Crowley had asked when he wasn’t Crowley nor even Crawley, when he was an angel in Heaven, devoted to Her.

"Why?" He asked on the top of the mountain, watching Jesus smile so fondly at him, even knowing what was coming.

"Why?" He asked under the shadow of the cross.

"Why?" He asked, kneeling in front of the altar.

If She doesn't answer prayers, if She doesn't answer questions, at least he can ask and provoke Her until She finally snaps and smites him.

"Why?!" He keeps asking and his body still burns, the light of the candles reaches to the ceiling.

"WHY?!" He cries in a painful scream, grabbing his glasses and tossing them aside. 

“Why?” He doesn't know how long he has been asking why, he doesn't know how long he has been kneeling, but it was long enough that he was losing the ability to feel his knees. The fire inside him burned hotter than the floor of the church; the thunder of his heart and the storm in his head are louder than the Apocalyptic trumpets. 

"At least do we stand a chance?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thanks Madeline, my amazing beta-reader!


End file.
